


Maybe Tomorrow Is a Better Day

by fracturedvaels



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Mage!Carver, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5081966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fracturedvaels/pseuds/fracturedvaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris quirked a brow. Was Anders dragging Carver into his schemes? His mage underground? Oh, they’d have words -</p><p>“Of companionship,” Carver finally added. He squirmed about in his seat, then looked back down at the floor. “I’ve just – it’s not been much for alone time. Or to find anyone. I’m usually with my brother. But he’ll be busy with mother tomorrow, and I figured – I might not get another offer.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Tomorrow Is a Better Day

**Author's Note:**

> this takes place in act 1, so fenris has a pretty low opinion of anders. please keep that in mind because you'll see him call anders a not very nice name in this.
> 
> let me know if you see anything wrong !!

Fenris watched Carver sitting – brooding, really, as that seemed to be his default – from across the small gap between tables. Carver hadn’t wanted to come out, but his mother had left the house with their uncle and she hadn’t wanted Carver sitting at home by himself again. Hawke was off doing… whatever it was, with the other two mages of their group and Aveline, and that left Fenris in charge of babysitting duty, he supposed.

He wondered how Hawke would react to the fact that Carver most certainly did not linger at home while they were out. He didn’t wander very far, but Fenris had seen him exploring the city, dipping into smaller bars and taverns with people. He seemed to be making his own connections, without his brother’s or any other’s influence; Fenris often wondered if Carver had taken up merc work himself while his brother was away on other business.

It would make sense, after all. Carver was brilliant, even for a mage. Perhaps better for it. He knew the risks of being an apostate with no coin or weight behind his name. He was as his father before him, an outlaw by simple accident of birth. Unfortunate, but Fenris found himself wondering if Carver would always be opposed to the Circle. He seemed a more careful mage than Merrill or Anders, but that could be based off his twitchiness. Couldn’t he benefit from their teachings?

Fenris couldn’t tell if Carver was afraid of his own power or firmly confident in it. Either way was dangerous, as all mages were in his opinion; but Carver had proven himself cautious and had not fallen to the same temptations as the abomination and the witch. Fenris supposed that made him… different, in his eyes. He hesitated to say better, but the skill Carver showed in battle and the efficiency with which he dispatched enemies, his surefootedness and even his frame -

Well. You’d be a fool not to think Carver beautiful in some manner, Fenris supposed. He was smaller framed than his brother; still a good few inches taller than most, though Anders and Hawke were both taller than him. But Anders was willowy and Hawke was – oh, what was the phrase? “Built like a brick shithouse”, if he recalled. Solid muscle and very furry, with his hair long down the middle and shaved on the sides. Hawke wasn’t the smartest in their group, either, though he was definitely the funniest and the most reliable.

And handsome, too. And if the sketches Carver and his mother worked on in their free time were any indication, their sister had been absolutely stunning as well, as had their father. That seemed awfully unfair, to have a family so good looking. But, Fenris noted grimly, that was likely evened out by the fact that two of them were, well, dead. Unfortunate, and he’d never crack that joke around the brothers; Carver seemed overly sensitive to mentions of his dead twin, and Hawke would probably hit him if he upset Carver.

So Fenris kept it and his observations to himself, as best he could. It was difficult not to discuss some things with Carver, because he was curious and Fenris had never had someone be curious about him. Not without sinister aim, anyway. Perhaps Anso was an exception, but Anso was rare among anyone on Thedas. True benevolence was difficult to find but Anso asked for nothing and gave very much. Fenris hoped he was well, and noted to pay him a visit.

But then there was Carver. He asked things Anso didn’t, or perhaps he wasn’t quite ready to ask. He also spoke to Fenris like they were equals and for a time, Fenris loathed him that; he felt Carver didn’t understand what it was to truly be on the run from something terrible and heavy. But as time pressed on he realized that was reactionary. Fenris knew as little about Carver as Carver knew about Fenris. And the threat of the Circle when he clearly was uncomfortable with the idea of it seemed a heavy enough burden.

Aside from some views on magic, Fenris found he got along best with Carver. He was snarky, and strange, but that was permitted; he was also a teenager and had been to the Void and back. He never talked of his home or his sister, and when Hawke did he stared at the back of his head as though his brother had stabbed him in the kidney. The worst was hearing Anders talk about her. Fenris didn’t understand the sympathy. It wasn’t as though he’d lost anything to the Blight, not truly.

Maybe Anders cared about Carver. Or he was as the others; he cared about Carver because Hawke cared about Carver, or maybe he cared about Carver because he was a mage. Carver didn’t seem terribly invested in a mage rebellion. There seemed to be no gain for him. But still he persisted.

Fenris tried not to think about that now, watching Carver sit on the bench across from him. He was hunched over, gripping the hilt of his staff. It was made to look like an ax, similar to his brother’s favored weapon, and it meant they were less likely to draw suspicion when he walked around with it strapped to his back. Now he was gripping it hard, staring at Fenris’ knee; his knuckles were like little moons in the firelit tavern room.

“Is everything alright?” Fenris finally asked. In his contemplation he’d noticed Carver seemed far more… anxious than normal. Stressed, perhaps?

Carver gave a half hearted shrug.

“I wouldn’t normally offer my shoulder,” Fenris continued, “but you seem distressed.”

“Just thinking,” Carver replied as Varric swept through to take their emptied mugs for refills. Varric sniffed at that and muttered, ‘thought I smelled something burning’ which earned him a laugh from Isabela and a glare from Carver. Carver waited till he’d passed to continue. “I… might pay a visit to Anders, tomorrow.”

Fenris scowled. That abomination – no. No, maybe Carver had genuine business with him. That was alarming. “Are you ill?” He asked before he could stop himself. Carver shrugged. “Does your brother know?”

“Not really something I want my brother knowing about.” Carver leaned forward and pressed his palms to his eyes. “I’m just – thinking – he extended an offer a few weeks back and I was thinking of taking it.”

Fenris quirked a brow. Was Anders dragging Carver into his schemes? His mage underground? Oh, they’d have words -

“Of companionship,” Carver finally added. He squirmed about in his seat, then looked back down at the floor. “I’ve just – it’s not been much for alone time. Or to find anyone. I’m usually with my brother. But he’ll be busy with mother tomorrow, and I figured – I might not get another offer.”

Fenris felt like there was a water wheel in his head. Old and dried out and dusty, long in disuse. But as Carver looked at him, it was as though someone had dumped a large amount of water onto it and sent it spinning like it had never stopped.

Oh. Of course.

Fenris felt himself sneering. “You do not want that – that man.” He struggled not to say 'abomination’ or even 'thing’, though that was his default. It wouldn’t do to insult Anders too outright. Was this truly a mutually beneficial thing? Oh, Fenris should have known. That wasn’t gentle or curious inquiry. Anders had been flirting with Carver, right under their collective nose.

The only thing that didn’t stop him from making a disgusted noise was the thought of what Hawke might do if he knew.

“Well, I bloody want  _something_ ,” Carver snapped back. He’d leaned back, too, his staff now leaned on the table beside him. “I’m going  _mad_. It’s so bloody  _lonely_ , Fenris. And unless  _you’re_  offering – ”

Fenris sat up suddenly. Oh, a small window, but anything,  _anything_  to stop him from seeing that – that –

\- that prick, Anders.

“Perhaps I am,” he shot back. “Perhaps I would.”

“Oh? Right now?” Carver asked. It was a dare. Fenris took him in; the hard line of his mouth, and the way he held his head tipped to the side. Meant to look curious but Fenris could see the irritation in his eyes.

He reached for his mug and took a long sip. He never was one for thinking things through.

“Right now,” he said, and he stood, rummaging through his pockets for a silver. “Wait here,” and then he was off, sauntering over to the bar. Corf gave him an odd glance as he asked for a room, then nodded and gestured to the stairs.

“Pick one,” he said, bored, and Fenris suddenly realized why Varric loved this place so much.

He returned to Carver. “Let’s go. Or it’ll be a silver wasted.”

Carver stood, taking his staff – for good reason, Fenris wasn’t sure Isabela wouldn’t try to barter it for more drinks. Carver followed him upstairs and Fenris walked till they were at the end of the hallway. The rooms were sparsely decorated and gave the illusion of space, with a large bed Fenris wasn’t sure was really a bed and a single dresser and an old, crusty tub.

Carver leaned his staff against the wall next to the door. He seemed suddenly awkward, all his goofy limbs and youthfulness, and Fenris regretted his offer. But he’d rather this than whatever tomorrow might bring, so he steeled himself and stepped forward, closing the gap between them.

Carver was taller than Fenris but he was easily pushed around. Unlike his brother he seemed far more aware of his own size compared to others, and overcompensated by being overly gentle or withdrawing too much. Fenris gripped his arms as he backed him to the wall, moving his mouth down to Carver’s smooth jaw, then his neck. His shirt wasn’t difficult to open and once Fenris had it he slid his hands, then his arms around Carver’s middle.

Carver balanced himself by putting his own hands on Fenris’ shoulders. He pushed Fenris back till they were at the bed, then allowed him to retake control; Fenris turned Carver and gave him a gentle push, gesturing. Carver sat down and began taking off the rest of his clothes.

Fenris stepped back. He too began stripping, leaving his armor in a vague pile shape at the foot of the bed. He paused only to watch Carver lean back entirely and scoot back on the bed, lifting his hips up and wiggling them to get his pants off.

Maker, but he was a lovely sight, Fenris realized. He wanted to do many, many things to Carver, and he was sure that if his former master did not catch him first then Hawke would save him the trouble and skin him for them. Fenris would take his chances.

Isabela had slipped him something of hers, earlier. Oil. Not meant for him, but Isabela wasn’t here right now, and she could do with a night of nothing. One night’s refraining wouldn’t kill her. Fenris retrieved the small bottle from one of his pouches, then returned to the bed; Carver scooted back even farther to accommodate him.

He paused only a moment, waiting to see what Carver would do. There was the briefest of nods and Carver began parting his thighs for Fenris, who moved to crouch between his knees. “You are certain,” he said. He wasn’t expecting Carver to nod again but he did, leaning back onto the pillows. Fenris enjoyed the display before him. It wasn’t in Carver’s nature to be naked in any sense of the word, to be vulnerable – he was priggish and insensitive, destructive to conversation the way a flood was, always throwing out the wrong things at the worst times.

Now, this. This was absolute art. Fenris couldn’t help but feel greedy, wanting this all for himself; and he couldn’t help feeling a little prideful he’d gotten where Anders had clearly been trying to go for months in a single night with a few shots. It didn’t occur to Fenris that perhaps there was more to it, that Anders wasn’t solely after Carver’s body; even if it had, Fenris would likely have tossed the thought out.

Instead he uncapped the bottle and poured a generous amount onto his hand, leaning down over Carver. He started with kisses to his stomach as he went, one finger gently prodding him, waiting for his body to be receptive. It slipped in as he reached Carver’s pelvis where he offered nips to his hip bones and the insides of his thighs; when Carver squirmed, unconsciously opening them a little wider, Fenris pressed his face to one thigh and sighed. Then he resumed his kissing as he added another finger, moving his other hand to Carver’s hard cock.

He gave it a few feather-light strokes before dipping his head down, moving slowly to take all of him in. The moan Carver gave was Maker-damned divine. Fenris wanted to hear more of it and he made sure to slow his fingers when the third went in, drawing out as much as he could to feel and hear Carver’s reactions.

He felt a hand in his head. Not pushing or guiding but steady, hand trembling; Carver’s hips bucked just so and Fenris offered a hum of approval at the reaction. When Carver whined loudly and pulled his hand away from Fenris’ head, Fenris decided he was ready.

Fenris pulled back and pulled his fingers free. They were still somewhat slick, but to be sure he poured more of the oil – more than enough, he hoped, as the bottle was almost empty – onto his hand. He gave his own member a few good strokes as he moved up fully between Carver’s legs, nudging his thighs a little farther apart. Carver spread his legs eagerly; Fenris tried not to think about when he was last touched like this by a hand that wasn’t his own.

He used a hand pressed into the pillows by Carver’s head to steady himself as he leaned over him. Carver helped as he guided himself in, holding himself open for Fenris and moving his hips down just a bit as he slid in. Fenris had to hold back a gasp as Carver inhaled deeply and pushed back against the mattress. He squirmed a bit, waiting for Fenris to adjust his own position – putting his other now-free hand up on the other side of Carver’s head, after wiping as much as he could on the sheets.

“Ready?” He breathed out, loving the quick rise and fall of Carver’s chest, how he twisted his head just so and hooked his own arms around Fenris’. It was only when he nodded that Fenris saw fit to start thrusting.

He took it as slow as he could, at first. He didn’t want Carver coming too soon, after all. He wanted Carver thoroughly ravished, exhausted and unable to crawl out of the bed. He wanted to make up for those lonely months absent of any good 'companionship’.

Carver seemed to agree. He squeezed his thighs together on either side of Fenris’ hips and moaned his name loudly, baring his neck for Fenris to bite as he did. There was great pleasure in leaving blossom-like bites across Carver’s previously bare collarbones and throat. There was also great pleasure in going back up to kiss him again. Carver still tasted like whiskey and he kissed back eagerly, making Fenris practically melt.

This, Fenris realized, was something beautiful. The way Carver spread so willingly for him, how his moans were genuine and eager. Nothing like back in Tevinter. Fenris was still unused to sex like this, open and perfectly consensual and it made his bones ache with want of more, more, always more. More, perhaps, than Carver could give him, but that was for another night; for now, he reveled in how Carver’s hips lifted when he thrust particularly hard and how he begged and how he gripped Fenris’ arms so tightly when Fenris pushed against him and just gave shallow, rolling thrusts.

Fenris took a moment to be selfish; he stopped worrying, briefly, for Carver’s pleasure and focused on his own, still careful not to hurt his friend or make a poor show for him. But he wanted this, he wanted to be buried deep in Carver when he came. And so he was, with Carver’s legs tight around his waist and his head twisted away. Fenris pressed his face to the side of Carver’s beck and breathed in deep as he did, then let out a few choice swears with his lips pushed to Carver’s ear.

He took a moment to adjust himself, before he lost the glow, to move. He pulled back so he was sitting up a little more and slipped a hand between the two of them to take Carver in hand; it took only a few good moments before Carver was spilling too, onto his own stomach and chest. Fenris grew very lazy very suddenly and leaned down, smearing it between the two of them, to give his battered collarbones and neck several kisses.

“See?” He asked as he pulled out and rolled off of Carver. He ended up between him and the wall and Carver rolled too, pressing into Fenris. It felt only natural to pull him close but he found a hand drifting, running over the curve of Carver’s ass to find his spend leaking out. It would be a crime to leave themselves in such a disgusting state, but Fenris didn’t trust the tub.

He let himself wallow for a few minutes to enjoy the quiet and the warmth. Then he pulled back, crawling over Carver to leave the bed. There was a disappointed sigh as Carver moved to sit up and watch him.

“I will return,” Fenris said. “You rest.”

Carver laid back down on the bed, giving a nod. The last sight before Fenris shut the door was him lying, curled on his side, watching and waiting. Fenris would not leave him long; he’d only slipped on his leggings. He went to Varric’s room, well aware there was a far nicer bath and a large bucket. Varric kept his soaps in it, and some rags; he wouldn’t miss a bucket of water. Fenris had half a mind to just pull Carver in hear to scrub up, but that would be unfair to make him move so soon. Instead he wiped himself down, uncaring that the door hung open, well aware that Varric would know sooner or later.

He half hoped the dwarf would stroll in now. Fenris wanted to gloat.

But he didn’t; Fenris wiped himself off in lukewarm water, then ran a bucket for Carver. If he was so inclined, he could warm it up with magic. He returned to find Carver sitting up, waiting for him. Fenris was near-silent as he went, cleaning Carver off, taking care of his sore hips and thighs and the bites on his collarbones. He was very lovely like this, completely spent and pliant. But he was fairly lovely all of the time, Fenris thought.

He stopped only when Carver was nice and clean, if shivering a bit. As he took the bucket to the sink he asked, “Do you think they would notice if I stole a blanket from another room?”

Carver’s answer was a laugh, but Fenris was serious. He left the bucket in the decayed tub and vanished into the hall; he returned after checking two rooms. All the blankets were the same, but two was better than one, and it was the only luxury he could offer. Carver had put his old white tunic back on, and his smalls, but his pants and boots and shirt all remained on the floor. Fenris shimmied out of his leggings and left himself in his smalls, crawling into the bed; Carver had pushed the soiled blanket off onto the floor at the foot of the bed.

They wrapped themselves up in the blanket. It still wasn’t terribly warm, not at first; then Fenris felt it, from the buzzing in his markings. He clasped his hands over Carver’s. “What are you doing?”

“It’s just a little warming magic,” Carver whispered back. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to burn you out or something. It’s just cold.”

Fenris kissed his forehead apologetically.

“Still thinking of paying Anders a visit?” He asked, trying to sound unconcerned. He felt Carver shift. Probably a shrug.

“Perhaps,” he tucked his face against Fenris’ neck. “Not tomorrow. He wouldn’t have known anyway. It was going to be a surprise.”

Fenris ran a hand up and down Carver’s back and closed his eyes. There was a gnawing guilt in him; he’d treated this as a competition, he knew, taking joy in getting Carver before Anders had. But holding him in his arms felt nice, if not perfect. He had no illusions of pure romance. He simply wanted Carver then and there, and was glad to have him.

The fact that Carver seemed soothed was it’s own reward. He felt him settling eventually, till he slipped asleep curled up against Fenris. Fenris found him closing his eyes, too, but not before he pressed an almost apologetic kiss to Carver’s temple.

He would endeavor to do better by the boy. Tomorrow, perhaps. Tonight, he rested, and enjoyed Carver’s warmth and his weight.

**Author's Note:**

> come join the garbage pile at http://washingtonjoshuas.tumblr.com/


End file.
